


(hope) is the thing with feathers

by Midna_Ronoa



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: F/F, Fluff, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Internalized Homophobia, Just a wee bit, M/M, Past Abuse, Pining, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, so much pining, tasty tasty f/m friendships, wlw mlm solidarity
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-21
Updated: 2019-11-21
Packaged: 2021-02-26 02:41:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,406
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21516226
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Midna_Ronoa/pseuds/Midna_Ronoa
Summary: "The heat gets replaced by warmth.The fear-induced paralysis by some kind of stillness.The screams by a gentle voice—a lullaby in a language he doesn’t understand."Alistair has a nightmare, Zevran does his best.The Warden has a nightmare, her companions do their best.
Relationships: Alistair & Female Warden (Dragon Age), Alistair & Leliana (Dragon Age), Alistair/Zevran Arainai, Female Cousland/Leliana (Dragon Age), Leliana/Female Warden
Comments: 10
Kudos: 41





	(hope) is the thing with feathers

**Author's Note:**

> Will I ever finish all the material available about something before getting down to writing fic? PURRRRETTY UNLIKELY.  
> Long story short, I started playing Origins for the first time this summer and fell HARD for the characters and universe; so any kind of inconsistencies in this fic lore-wise are entirely my eager ass' fault, as I have only played Origin and its DLCs for the time being.  
> I started writing this fic as a short piece to work on the character’s voices so that I could write a longer thing (a Noir!AU); as you can see it got a bit out of hand. I’ve also been working on similar pieces from Zevran’s, Leliana’s, the Warden’s and Morrigan’s POV, just as writing exercises, so if this one does well I might as well post them.  
> Thanks as always to my wonderful beta [Nerel](https://brokenmobious.tumblr.com/).  
> Title from Emily Dickinson's homonymous poem.

He thinks he should be used to the nightmares by now, and as nightmares go, it’s not one of the worst he’s had. It’s a recurring one though.

He’s back at Ostagar, trapped at the top of the Tower of Ishal, only this time there’s no escape, no Ogre to fight and justify not being down below facing the darkspawn alongside Cailan, alongside Duncan. His breathing quickens, recognises the armour he’s wearing, a leather studded mess they got him in the armoury, days before Duncan brought Elissa with him, not the heavy plated silverite one she got made for him in Denerim.

Alistair thinks that he sees her out of the corner of his eye, a glint of the obsidian black of her armour, the flash of a Claymore carving flesh— he turns and the tower’s still empty, devoid of any sign of life, or death, except for the screams coming from beneath. He thinks of jumping, the only way he can imagine ending everything or of finally joining them—then there’s a shift.

A smell so acrid it burns his eyes, leathery wings resembling a nightmarish moth-eaten dress; chunks of purple flesh that should be hanging loose solidifying into talon-like protuberances. The Tower of Ishal a distant recollection compared to the giant dragon that looms a mere couple of feet away from him, the smell of iron and sulphur his only warning before he sees the fire, a sickly hellish green flame that suffocates him; makes him scream—and that’s suddenly gone, vanishes.

The heat gets replaced by warmth.

The fear-induced paralysis by some kind of stillness.

The screams by a gentle voice—a lullaby in a language he doesn’t understand.

His clammy skin and the sweat forgotten for a while thanks to the gentle fingers that keep running through the short strands in his head, long nails that drive into his scalp and trace a path down the back of his neck to afterwards back up again, repeating the process.

“Zevran?” Alistair groans, his voice hoarse, tries to peel back the blankets he had lied on top of his bedroll to keep the chill at bay. He makes the effort to try and propel himself up to a sitting position and fails—stumbling awkwardly—, Zevran’s other hand coming to rest on his chest to make him lie back down.

“I suppose that was another one of your Warden nightmares, yes?” he stops his humming, not his hands. Alistair cannot see him well, the little light that gets through the canvas of the tent being milky white moonbeams that let him see Zevran sitting close to him, his hair undone, silver-coloured and almost ethereal in how it frames his sharp features, not much else, just shapes and lumps around the tent; hazy, dark silhouettes.

“Do I sound different from when they are other kinds of nightmares?” Alistair snorts, gazing blearily towards Zevran.

Alistair’s still not used to this closeness, the distrust and outright rudeness with which he had treated the assassin until weeks ago having been a much more comfortable ground for him. Distrust was not an option in their situation though; bordering on three months of travelling with him and having his back covered, it was not only impractical but also unfounded and pretty dumb of him to still think that Zevran was planning to assassinate all of them while they slept. The rudeness an inefficient defensive mechanism to compensate for how unsettled he was still feeling after Ostagar, after Redcliffe, unable to disclose more of his feelings to someone who _hadn’t been there_ , who hadn’t had to live through it—live with it.

There was also the flirting and well—how their relationship had evolved to a point where Alistair was not very sure where he stood. For starters he was unused to being flirted with, in the Abbey he didn’t spend much time in contact with people that weren’t the other boys living there, and once he had found an out by joining Duncan, a fair share of sof-looking barmaids may have directed outright leers his way or tried to praise his looks, surely something having to do with his status as a Grey Warden—the mysterious order, those vanished centuries ago—not with him, Alistair ‘sorry I ate all the cheese’ Theirin.

And of course he had heard about _men_ flirting with other men, he had been raised surrounded by almost a hundred more boys his age after all; inside the Abbey they made it sound as something forbidden though, something secret only to be whispered once the lights were out or when they managed to escape outside the wall, having pilfered a bottle of brandy from Sister Eunice’s stash by the library. Zevran makes it sound like quite the opposite; something tantalizingly desirable, something to be pursued; even if it makes Alistair blush so deeply that he sometimes fears the heat will crawl down his neck, across his belly and—bellow.

“You thrash a little bit less, _tesoro_ , I also suppose that with the more pleasurable ones you will not scream in horror,” Zevran laughs quietly.

Before Alistair can think of anything witty or incredibly stupid to say, Zevran motions up into a crouch, his back turning, a hand disappearing beneath his own bedroll, the glint of metal the last thing Alistair sees before he hears ragged breathing outside, a careful pale hand sneaking in between the flaps of their tent to undo the laces and open them; which immediately makes Zevran relax, even if, Alistair notes, he doesn’t let go of the dagger.

“Is Alistair awake?” Leliana’s soft accented voice asks Zevran before she can see him sitting up behind the elf.

Alistair cannot see Leliana well, amber coloured light coming from the embers showing her backlit figure; her usually perfectly combed hair now in disarray, a light blue sleeping tunic that looks a bit rumpled covering her shivering body, naked pale feet peeking from underneath.

Before Zevran can answer Alistair crouches up, Zevran’s hand leaving his head for good.

“Yeah, what happened?” he tries to say, his voice still rough and a bit uneven as he shuffles his way out of his bedroll, muttering a soft apology so he can pass over Zevran’s legs and look at Leliana’s face properly.

“It’s…Elissa, she had another nightmare and I don’t know quite well how to—how to assist,” Leliana stutters her way through the sentence, visibly rattled, and from up close Alistair can see the worry in her blue eyes, the hand that’s still gripping the fabric of the tent fisting the material, her knuckles blanching.

“Yeah…yeah sure” he answers, his hands going down to fumble with the ties of his breeches to check that they are properly laced before he gets out.

Alistair hears Leliana whisper an apology into the tent, tries to warm himself up by cupping his hands over his mouth and exhaling before she lets go of the canvas and leads the way. The night air is chilly against his sweat-soaked clothing, the soft cotton of his tunic doing little to guard him against the cold Harvestmere air, sticking into his skin as the sweat starts to dry in between. He walks along Leliana the short space that separates their tents, his eyes straying towards Shale, who seems to be still on watch duty along Dog, away from the fire pit, close to the edge of the small forest they had emerged from to this clearing hours ago.

“I hadn’t heard Lissa scream like this since we left Lothering and I remembered…I remembered you talking to her,” Leliana explains in a whisper out of the blue, stopping outside of their shared tent, biting her bottom lip, “when the nightmares are about Ostagar or about her family, she lets me comfort her, draw her into my arms...but tonight—”

Alistair nods, trying to give her his best reassuring smile—even if he knows it is a very strained one—lifting his hand to squeeze her arm gently, slightly satisfied to see that she smiles back before she opens the flap to the tent, her posture stiffening.

The sobbing drowns out whatever is that Leliana says, Alistair’s stomach wringing like a rope at the sound. Leliana stands motionless, makes a small gesture with her hand to indicate Alistair that he can come in and he stops, trying to take in as much as he can of the dimly moonlit interior before he enters.

The smell is noticeable even from his position, the sour-sweet smells of sweat and vomit mingle in the small enclosure, where the air is too cloying and _hot_ compared to the outside of it. He sees her huddled in a corner, blankets and parts of her bedroll covering her almost completely except for her head an arms, which lie outstretched, both hands tightly clamped on the hilt of what used to be Duncan’s longsword; still sheathed, its edge still hidden to the world. Alistair notices that the crying has stopped, and that he can now only hear Leliana’s attempt of a controlled breathing from up close, Elissa’s ragged intakes coming from a few feet across, her green eyes wild, trained on him as if he was Hurlock or a giant spider she had to behead, tufts of her unruly dark hair hiding her face in shadows.

“Hey,” Alistair tries awkwardly, winces immediately before he makes his way inside, feeling the tent flap brush his back, as it pitches the inside back into darkness. “You saw the archdemon too, right?” he asks and begins his advance towards her along the tent. Somehow he manages not to trip with anything except the sword, which makes him lose his balance and tumble to fall on his knees, his bare hands searching for purchase and finding the weapon instead—the grip on which he doesn’t loosen.

Elissa is still unresponsive, Alistair can still hear her fast breathing from even closer, so he tries to move his hands upwards, at a very slow pace, trying to get to hers which remain clamped up on the hilt.

“I saw Ostagar today, you were not around…but Cailan and Duncan were, you know, as they always seem to me,” a soft self-deprecating laugh escapes him. “For a while, I also dreamt about the Circle, about the whole mess Uldred had organized up there—with the Templars,” he adds, his hands _finally_ reaching hers, which don’t even budge. “You have to let go, Cousland, because otherwise, I cannot help you,” he tries this time, his tone a bit firmer, a call-back to the one she uses when he chastises him, or that time a couple of months ago, when he told her about his parentage and her face turned a bitter looking mask for almost a whole day.

It seems to elicit a reaction; a slow exhale of air, followed by a hiccup.

“You never call me that,” she croaks, her voice watery and barely there. Her hands slacken for a bit and Alistair seizes the chance to slowly, one by one, untangle her fingers from the blade, his rough fingertips brushing against her cold clammy ones until she lets go of the leathery surface, hot to Alistair’s touch, covered in a thin sheen of perspiration.

“Well you never had kicked Leliana out of your tent before either, so it can be a first for us all,” he hides behind sarcasm because it’s safe, because it’s familiar; he can almost see her pained expression from the soft groan-like sound she makes.

Alistair barely manages to carefully pull the sword aside before he feels her body sagging against his, he thinks at first that she’s going to gently plop down, but as soon as her head hits his chest Elissa practically pushes herself against him, hands skirting up over his shoulder blades before she crushes her whole body against his, a horrible sob wracking throughout her before he can process what’s going on.

“I’m sorry—I’m so sorry…I just—I saw _it_ and it had Leli on its jaws, and you were there too and...I’m so sorry,” she babbles almost unintelligibly, her words lost to the tears, a constant plea for forgiveness, a plea to which Alistair does not know if he has any right to answer or to attend; because he’s completely lost.

He’s never been good with words, he knows this as well as everyone else in the camp, as everyone in Redcliffe or growing up in the Abbey; he fumbles and usually falters before he can even formulate a coherent sentence, and his tendency for rambling is legendary—there’s something at what he’s been told that he’s good at though, so he puts it into practice. He gently raises one of his hands, not wanting to scare her, and moves it so that he can place it on her head, the other shortly coming up to rest a bit lower behind her back.

“You don’t have anything to be sorry about…you’ve been so so brave these last months, Maker, I’d never have been able to do half of what I have if you weren’t by my side,” he tries, his voice low, a bit hoarse, a bit caught up on emotion, because he has never seen her like _this_. So broken, so scared.

His hands dig slowly through her short shorn hair, Alistair had seen her cut it after they left Lothering, after having her complaining almost for a week about how it got all matted and dirty with resin and bird poop while they crossed the forest. He knew that it was not out of mere comfort, because there was a certain determination that hadn’t been there before when she finished, he remembers watching the uneven dark auburn locks consuming in the fire, her hands faltering when she returned the dagger she had used to Leliana.

“You can feel helpless you know…you can be scared and lost after all we have seen, and it doesn’t have to mean anything,” he mutters, the hand on her back tracing small circles that intend to soothe, just as Zevran had done for him so many times before in the darkness of their tent. “It doesn’t have to mean that you are weak, because you’re not! And because I—well we, _we_ can help you back up again. I know I could,” he tries to finish talking a bit self-assuredly, even if his voice fails him in the end, even if he has to clutch her a bit closer so that he can breathe her in—sweat and vile mingling with mint and herbs, something grounding and familiar in such an uncharted territory, “being brave is about doing the right thing even if you feel like you should just—run. And you do it so often, you manage to pull it off so easily…”

“Alistair…Ali—you’re too fucking good to be real,” Elissa chokes out, after what feels like hours, her voice just a bit higher, a breathy and watery laugh slithering out of her lips at the same time as the sobs begin to subside, substituted by irregular hiccups; soft puffs of air that collide against the wet mess that Alistair’s shirt has become, full of tears spit and Maker knows what else. He doesn’t care much though, knows far too well that the place where he had sat close to Elissa was where she had probably thrown up, taking into account the wet spot near his knee; his clothes were already ruined for good. “I’m just—I’m scared.”

“I thought that after what happened at Kinloch Hold and Redcliffe we had already established that I’m scared of a wide range of stuff, from demonic possession to facing my responsibilities as a royal bastard; take your pick,” he says, feeling her fists slacken only to get punched in an arm unceremoniously, “Ouch!”

“Not like that, you dumbass,” she complains, making Alistair feel the vice that was twisting in his stomach relax for a bit “I…I don’t want to lose any of you, I don’t want Leliana or the others to get killed because they decided to follow us on this fool’s errand. I don’t want you to—to _die_!” she chokes out, a full shudder running through her body, her forehead firmly pressed against Alistair’s collarbone.

“We are not going to die,” he retorts a bit outraged, which makes her finally raise her head, or that’s what Alistair supposes by the shape he has in front of him, the reflection of tears on her cheekbones making him able to calculate, more or less, the distance between them “I mean, we could probably die but…I don’t think we should until we defeat that archdemon, you know, because it’s not going to go and stab itself with a sword,” that earns him another punch, even if this one is even more half-hearted than the previous one.

“Optimism looks like shit on you Alistair…don’t—” she whispers, visibly hurt.

“I am here because I want to, so is Leliana—hell even Morrigan, Wynne and Shale are here because they want to. I can’t speak for Sten and Zevran because they have this, weird honour and blood debt with you—what I mean is, you’re not pushing us around without our consent as if we were kids. We know what we are doing, we are following you,” he says, before his resolve wavers, a hand lifting to brush her hair lightly to afterwards descend and clean some stray tears that keep coming, the other lifting to push a finger onto her chest, digging a bit for emphasis.

“But—why _me_? I couldn’t even protect Highever…I couldn’t even protect mother and father I—”

“Duncan couldn’t either,” Alistair answers brusquely, with absolute certainty of his words, even if they make something inside him curl painfully “Duncan couldn’t protect your father, or Cailan for that matter—but he got you to _us_ , and he believed in _you_ , the same way he believed in _me_. And I think that that’s got to mean something,” he swallows hard after that, aware of what he’s said, aware of what she already knows.

“I believe in you too you know,” she murmurs, a smile forming under his fingertips.

“Yeah well, we’re not here to talk about how wrong you sometimes are about your guesses. Well, we actually are—because there’s a reason we follow you. Not just because you are cute and can and will make your way through hordes of darkspawn just to recover the smallest thing a poor farmers wife asked you to,” he asserts, feeling himself smile too. “I follow you because I think that you can make a change—and because you inspire me to continue. I already told you when we visited Goldanna but—nobody had ever been so kind to me, except for Duncan, and that means a _lot_.”

A beat passes, Alistair remains still, uncertain about having fucked up, about having put a foot on his mouth, as he usually does whenever he tries to speak. He’s stuttering, on the verge of saying something before he feels her move, feeling one of her hands help her balance herself against his chest while the other brushes his face, bumping against his nose and settling on his cheek before he feels soft, even if slightly chapped, lips on his forehead.

“Thank you…” she breathes, towering a bit over him from that position before she lowers herself, “for your trust and for—for everything,” she manages to say before he’s being crushed against her chest, a self-conscious smile blooming on his lips that gets easily placated by the satisfaction of seeing her recover, even if a little.

He’s about to separate a bit and say something, but the tent flaps suddenly open unceremoniously, the bright orange tinge of the fire brought back to life making its way inside to show a slim but familiar silhouette peeking through the opening, blonde locks framing a tanned tattooed face with a roguish smile on its lips.

“Didn’t know I would be interrupting something,” Zevran smirks, letting the flap hang aside, carrying a steaming metal mug on his other hand.

Alistair snorts, separating for a bit, letting go of Elissa’s body to rise a bit just to suddenly feel something yanking at the hem of his shirt. He supposes that it’s caught in a piece of spare armour, maybe even the sword he set aside some minutes ago but upon reaching down, finds a warm calloused hand instead of cold metal, and looks away from Zevran to see Elissa’s hand firmly tugging at his clothes, and turns to see her head up; green eyes, almost pleading, looking at his.

Before he can utter anything he hears movement, the light gets obscured for a few seconds and Alistair turns to see Zevran shuffling in, the recipient still held in between his two hands before he hands it over to Alistair, a smile still playing on his lips, except that this time is far more gentle, and gets in a position in which Alistair supposes that Zevran can more or less see Elissa still huddled close to his leg.

“Hi, Zev…Sorry for waking you up,” she croaks out. Alistair sees the smile she tries to show too. It makes him feel small, makes him want to hug her until she’s feeling better and her smile is the defiant grin he’s seen so many times out of this tent.

“Oh, it’s never a problem to assist a damsel in distress, or so they say, no?” Zevran smiles, crouching a bit lower so that he can be at the same height as they are. “Our dear bard told me that you woke up feeling unwell, so I prepared a little something for you, wouldn’t want Alistair to take all the merit with helping you out.”

Meanwhile, Alistair smells the content of the mug, recognizes the scent of some herbs, `lavender and chamomile, to settle your stomach and guard off bad dreams’ Zevran had told him weeks ago after leaving Redcliffe, on their way to the Brecillian forest, after a particularly bad nightmare that had involved Isolde, demons and too many distorted childhood memories.

Alistair gets back to a sitting position, untangling Elissa’s hand gently from his clothes to pass her the cup, which she grabs slowly, hissing lightly before she cradles it against herself, eyes closing briefly while she takes in the smell.

“Tell Leliana that she can sleep in my roll if she doesn’t mind, I can pass her her stuff if she prefers—” Alistair starts to say before Zevran can leave, earning himself a quirked brow, before the elf can say anything though, Elissa stirs, shaking her head energetically.

“That won’t be necessary…she shouldn’t have left to begin with I just—” she bites her lip after saying this, visibly distressed, at what Zevran smiles reassuringly once more. He’s always been better than Alistair dealing with people; but again, every single person Alistair’s known has been better at that than he is.

“Of course, shall I wait until you finish with that? I promise I’ll leave so that Alistair and you can finish speaking,” Zevran offers, and Alistair doesn’t fail to register the shocked expression that passes through his eyes when Elissa moves to shuffle closer to him, using her free hand to part some of the hair covering his face so that she can place a gentle kiss on his cheek.

“Thanks, Zev,” she whispers, before she leans back against Alistair’s leg, who stares at Zevran until he blinks and regains a bit of his usual flair, extending his hand to clutch her ankle lightly before he stands.

“Always at your service,” he offers before he makes his way out, his back to them.

Alistair feels a sudden satisfaction at having been able to see over his façade—having been able to recognise the uncertainty in his posture and tone—, which makes him smile unaware, and Maker is he glad that the tent has been pitched back into darkness and that his fellow Warden cannot see his face, because he’s almost sure that his cheeks are spending the night in a state of permanent flush.

Elissa moves a bit closer to him, her back resting against his torso, head slightly propped against the area of his collarbone, taking advantage of his superior height. He hears her beginning to sip the beverage, tries to make himself comfortable once again—far away from the vomit dirty spot— while he hears Zevran walk away and talk to someone in hushed tones, Alistair relaxes his posture and places one of his hands in his companion’s knee, the other resting in between the blankets.

“So Zev and you, huh?” Elissa asks after a couple of minutes, less congested, and he would even dare say light and playful.

“Zevran and I what?” he asks back a bit disoriented.

“You know…”

“You know I don’t fucking know,” he complains, blushing an even deeper shade of red, his hand coming up to tug slightly at the cords that hold his shirt closed.

“Are you sleeping together?” she asks, going for innocent and failing because she almost falls after the movement Alistair makes to stabilize himself. Laughter escaping her lips after that.

“We are not—I’d never do _that_ with him,” he babbles, gesturing exaggeratedly with his hands, a warm feeling washing over him when he notices that her laugh is probably good-natured.

“I mean I’ve seen how he looks at you,” she mutters, taking another sip from the mug before she tries to settle herself against Alistair once more.

“He looks at everyone that way. Void, I know he tried to bed you as soon as he saw that you were going to hold true to the not killing him thing.”

“Yeah well, but a month ago you tried to sleep outside during a thunderstorm and Shale had to almost manhandle you inside of your tent because you didn’t want to share with him,” she laughs again, twisting her head a bit, allowing him to see the glint of mirth in her eyes thanks to the sliver of light that not closing the tent properly lets in.

“But people change…” Alistair mumbles, all of his hopes to try and hide whatever he might have been concealing even from himself, gone.

“And it’s you who has changed? Or Zevran?” Elissa asks in between sipping more, her body falling lax against his “Or could it be that your feelings for him and his for you have changed? What a conundrum,” she lets out an exaggerated gasp before starting to giggle.

“Ha, ha, ha. Very funny. I’m just cackling over here,” he murmurs.

“Oh come on. It is funny,” she answers before Alistair sees her place the empty tin cup on the floor, one of her hands searching for his until she finds it, clutching it lightly before guiding it so that she can grab it with both of her hands and hug Alistair’s arm against her chest. “You know I didn’t notice that I liked girls until I met Leli. I had heard about it and well—hadn’t given it much thought because it was not expected from the future lady of Highever,” she explains, her tone light and relaxed, no trace of her having been crying until recently. “I hadn’t ever—licked a lamppost in winter before her either,”

Alistair laughs at the call-back, his smile remaining on his features when he hears her laugh too. “So you’re telling me I should go—and _woo_ Zevran? Win his heart?” he asks trying to go for a sarcastic tone, sounding far more uncertain than he’d have liked.

“I think the wooing is already done, but it wouldn’t go amiss either,” she answers thoughtfully.

“So I should plant myself in front of him and declare my undying love for him while holding a rose right?” shame floods his system at the memory of how _that_ went.

“That was still one of the sweetest things anybody’s done for me Ali,” she chastises him, squeezing his hand a bit tighter against herself. “But, maybe you can—go slower, see if you can get familiarized with the terrain. He’ll understand,” her tone is sounding way drowsier than before, her breaths slower and gentler. Alistair can feel them in the slow up and down of her chest and in the way her head is cocked forward.

“Hey, don’t fall asleep on me, I’m all hard edges and muscle,” he whispers, trying to shake her lightly while he searches for a proper place to lay her down.

“You’re like a teddy bear, don’t try ‘n deflect it, my advice’s good,” Elissa murmurs, her head almost comically lolling to one side while he tries to ever so gently place her on what he supposes is Leliana’s roll.

“Don’t try and deflect talking to Leliana tomorrow morning,” Alistair retorts, covering her up with the blankets before he runs his hand through her hair, ruffling it a bit. “I’ll go fetch her, ok?” he says, standing up for a bit before, far too tempted by the situation, he crouches to peck her on the temple.

“…’key Ali, try ‘n sleep,” she mutters under her breath, a contented sigh passing through her lips the last thing he hears before he opens the flap and gets out, remaining for ten seconds or so watching her start to fall asleep; all the fear and restlessness previously marring her features completely gone.

Leliana and Zevran are sitting by the fire, their legs brushing, with the latter having tied his hair back in a ponytail that reveals far more skin than his plaits usually do, which Alistair doesn’t fail to note, making him blush slightly after the conversation he’s just had. He doesn’t know how long he’s been inside of that tent, but it doesn’t seem like the moons have advanced further on their cycle, and the forest remains silent, the far of gurgle of a stream echoing far away if paid attention to. He also thinks he sees some movement coming from Morrigan’s tent but decides to pay no heed.

“She’s asleep now, will probably be for the rest of the night,” Alistair sighs, announcing his presence, seeing how both rogues shift a bit apart before they glance into his direction as soon as he gets close enough to the fire.

“Thank you Alistair, you truly are a treasure,” Leliana smiles sadly, getting up and closing the distance in between them in a few steps before she gives him a tight hug and a kiss on the cheek; both of which leave him perplexed.

“You—you’re welcome, I really did nothing she just…we just—talked and well…”

“She probably disagrees, I do too. After all, you are very dear to her, aren’t you?” Leliana’s smile is so sweet and lacking any kind of malice that he has to blink a couple of time, looking at Zevran at a loss of words, who simply winks and shrugs.

“I don’t—you know we don’t—not like that!” he blurts, which makes Leliana laugh.

“Oh, Alistair, you are so silly! Of course you don’t,” she shakes her head before tilting it, “that doesn’t mean she doesn’t appreciate you,” she adds in a whisper, getting a bit closer to him, he hopes that purely for show.

“I—she—she said that it would be okay if you went back, she just—well you know how bad the nightmares get,” Alistair explains in a rush, trying to put a bit of distance. “Sorry,” he adds almost without noticing, averting his gaze to look at their bare feet; his bare feet really, because Leliana seems to have slipped on a pair of, pretty out of place, blue satin slippers.

“Why are you apologising?” she asks softly.

“I—well, she wouldn’t be in this whole saving the world mess if I had decided to lead the Wardens, probably…”

“We wouldn’t have met otherwise, so I shall cherish that you decided to let her be the head of this merry band instead of simply disbanding,” Leliana says, “So thank you, Alistair, I truly owe you, for bringing us together and being such a good friend—to both of us.”

He stares dumbfounded at Leliana, something odd happening in his brain as he registers each word that she’s saying to afterwards put them together as a whole.

Leliana is thanking him.

Leliana is thanking him for being Elissa’s friend.

“I—‘s nothing I suppose,” Alistair smiles back, a bit self-aware, his hand travelling to the back of his neck to scratch it lightly. “You are—you too are great and really make a nice couple with—oh Maker just maybe forget that part, I just—yeah just wanted to say that I’m grateful that you are by her side too.”

He sees Leliana laugh, bid her goodbyes and walk on light feet until she crouches to get into her tent, nightgown riding up slightly to show her pale toned legs disappearing on the inside.

“Our bard friend is truly lovely isn’t she?” Alistair hears and almost jumps, because he had completely forgotten that Zevran was sitting just across from him, dark baggy pants and an open linen white shirt that leaves nothing to the imagination on.

Alistair gets lost for a second on the tattoos that peek from underneath, dark lines that dance and writhe along with the fire and the assassin’s breathing. He has to force himself to look away, afraid that the blush he must be sporting by now will darken even more. “She’s—Leliana’s a good person,” he concedes, shifting on his feet.

“Well, you truly are on par with her, if we are talking about goodness here, my friend,” Zevran smiles with that charm and confidence that used to baffle Alistair; still does, but he’s now able to recognize the nuances underneath, other emotions or when these smiles are forced or trying to hide something. Zevran seems to be thoroughly enjoying putting up this one though.

“Of course I am, wouldn’t want to get smitten by the Maker after so many years training for the Chantry,” he tries to deflect, seeing Zevran get even closer, his smile softening.

“ _Cielo_ , your inability to see the goodness in yourself is something that will never cease to astound me,” Zevran says, tugging slightly at Alistair’s sleeve while he starts walking towards their tent. “Come now, tomorrow will be a long day and we will need you in walking condition to work as a barricade against the darkspawn,” his tone is light, but Alistair can sense the askance in it, suspects that Zevran won’t react badly if he answers that he prefers to take Shale’s place on watch duty.

His eyes stray towards Shale and Dog, the small cerulean crystals on her twinkling in periodic intervals against the stark blackness that lies at the edge of the forest, the mabari asleep close to her, its ears twitching at every slight sound that’s too minute for their human ears. When he turns back, Zevran is two steps away, his hands on the flap of the tent opening it up tentatively as if waiting for Alistair to react.

“You’re not that bad of a person either—for an assassin” Alistair gets to mutter, closing the distance in between them before he ducks inside, gets to see a faint smile tugging at Zevran’s lips before he makes his way towards his bedroll.

“Well, that’s a first,” he hears Zevran laugh before the piece of fabric falls behind him. He tucks himself in before the elf can say anything else, lets out a contented sigh as soon as his bare feet are covered by a double layer of blankets, “and dare I ask, my friend, what makes you say that?”

He feels Zevran sit down, a light shift, a lighter brush against his cheek and he can almost visualize the golden strands of hair that are now falling down his back, hears Zevran tuck the piece of cloth he had used to bind his hair inside of his pack.

“Well, you didn’t murder us in our sleep the first chance you got, or sold us to the Crows as soon as we set foot on Denerim,” the next thing Alistair hears is a light rustle, probably Zevran has discarded the light shirt he was wearing, and even if Alistair knows all too well that the assassin sleeps shirtless, the thought makes him shiver.

“Ah, but I made a vow to our gallant leader, did I not?” he asks, and Alistair furrows his brow a bit, because Zevran doesn’t move from his sitting position again.

“A vow made at swordpoint doesn’t mean shit” Alistair knows that Elissa had freed Zevran from this vows months ago, knows that she had let him go after overhearing a conversation when he was on his way to gather some more wood to chop for the fire. He does not mention it.

“So this is one of another thing tied to that Fereldan honour of yours, yes? All those rules about propriety and etiquette when—”

“Bullshit! Anyone will do anything when their life is at stake!” he rises up, a bit more agitated than he’d like to admit. Even sitting down, Alistair towers over Zevran, who is still a mere few feet away. He can hear the elf’s slow breathing, a sharp counterpart to his own fast and deep intakes “I’ve heard you talk to Leliana and the rest, I’ve seen how you treat Elissa,” _I’ve noticed how you talk to me, I’ve heard you sing when I’m having nightmares. I know your kindness_ ; he doesn’t say.

“You take me for a fool if you think that I am not aware of that, _principito_. You take me for a fool if you think that I have not savoured how it feels to take a life after hearing its owner beg for it, crawl and try to make every possible offer in the world for it. Trading and bartering in human lives is a Crow specialty which, you seem to forget, I’ve mastered,” his tone is bitter now, Alistair knows that he’s trying to deflect something, because he’s never heard Zevran get defensive before, _ever_.

“But you’re here,” Alistair lets out, his voice far weaker than he was aiming for “You care…” For what or who, he doesn’t dare say.

He hears an exhale, deliberately slow and heavy. He feels the cold fingers of Zevran’s hand next, tracing ever so lightly the callous skin of Alistair’s palm and fingers.

“It’s difficult to care as much and as heavily as you do, _cielo_ , and someday it may be your undoing. But it’s difficult not to—” he seems at a loss and Alistair hears the uneven intake of breath that returning the brushing of fingers causes “Find you and your companions endearing.”

“I wouldn’t call Morrigan endearing…” Alistair mutters, aware of the hitch in his breathing.

“Maybe not endearing, but definitely interesting,” Zevran adds, a low chuckle forming on his throat, his shoulder bumping slightly against Alistair’s, “Crows made us not care and it’s a noose that’s difficult to free oneself from, even once it has been cut down from the scaffold.”

Alistair stays silent, feels Zevran’s hand leave his and makes a futile attempt to make it remain there, tries to grab it as gently as he can, but the elf snatches it away, a low laugh coming out of his lips once more; it is not a mocking sound though, Alistair’s learnt to recognize those in the time they’ve spent together.

“You can tell me about the Crows—if you want to. They tell me I’m a great listener,” Alistair tries, ducks his head almost immediately, shame creeping up due to the lameness of the attempt.

One beat, two; Zevran remains unmoving. Alistair is about to fall back down on his roll, until he feels those delicate fingers make contact once more, pads brushing against his knuckles.

“Oh, _cielo_ , but I don’t think you are ready to hear about them yet,” he exhales. Alistair would swear that he almost hears a sad smile on those lips, even if he’s not brave enough to bet on it.

Alistair turns his hands slightly, moves it enough to return the caress, refrains himself from sighing when his fingers make contact with the alternating pattern of callous and soft tender skin in the hands of the elf.

“Of course, of course…it was stupid of me to presuppose—it’s only that I heard you talking to her after Haven and the Urn and I thought that maybe—” Maybe what? Maybe he’d feel inclined to speak about his past trauma with a man who didn’t trust him until he started to fall for him?

Hot shame engulfs him for a minute, a minute that goes by as heavily as a thousand would, because he cannot stop going round that train of thought, blocking the idea of falling for Zevran as soon as it surfaces because he’s not ready to talk about _that_ with _that_ kind of words. Because they are both men. Because Zevran is an assassin and Alistair a royal bastard whose future is to be king. Because Zevran has years of experience and Alistair’s experience goes as far as giving a chaste kiss to a Chantry sister when she gave him a handkerchief with his name crudely etched on its surface. Because Zevran deserves someone better, someone who is not scared to be who he has to be, someone who doesn’t blush at the mere thought of kissing him, someone who—

“It was not stupid, as well as you are very much not stupid, Alistair,” those words bring Alistair to a complete and total halt.

Not _my friend_ or some word in Antivan he didn’t even begin to understand, lest try to pronounce and ask Zevran about its meaning. His gaze is now locked close to where he guesses that Zevran’s face is, framed by curtains of silky looking silver hair, which had been golden minutes ago on the outside.

“It was simply bold, unexpected even. Your intentions were noble, as you are,” the smile hasn’t left, and if Alistair was truly brave he’d raise his hand, he’d touch those full lips and he’d trace it with the pads of his fingers, feel the ghosting of hot breath, and then—he’d kiss it. “Alas the night has been long, for the both of us, and I don’t think I am ready to share this burden—not right now,” Zevran caresses his hand, gently, raises it until Alistair supposes that’s eye-level with him and—feels his lips resting gently on the back, a simple brush, enough to make Alistair hold his breath; enough to make it feel like a promise.

Alistair doesn’t let his hand fall, he retires it almost painstakingly slowly once Zevran lets go and finally seems to divest himself of his boots, the sound of laces and leather being pulled at the only thing that Alistair can hear apart from his blood drumming painfully on his ears, his own racing heart a mad pulse against his ribcage.

He should lie down, get some rest before sunrise comes and they have to get up and start preparing their stuff to leave, there’s still a long way to go to Orzammar, as they’ve barely finished circling Lake Calenhad on their way to the road that leads into the Frostbacks—back into the cold. Alistair opens his mouth instead, his hand finding purchase on his blanket and starting to talk before he can stop himself.

“Elissa didn’t tell me about her family until late you know—she mentioned it when we met in Ostagar, tried to go look for his brother but she never wanted to burden us with it. She—broke after Lothering, I was still pretty wrecked after what happened to Duncan and she—”

“You don’t have to tell me this if you do not wish to, I know that they are painful memories for you—” Zevran interrupts him, but Alistair holds.

“No, let me—I want to. I want to tell you this and not make it about me, or how I feel about stuff,” he snorts, going for light but sounding far more self-deprecating than he wants. “She spent three whole days by my side, telling Morrigan to piss off while trying to help and managing _somehow_ not to have a breakdown and leave us both stranded in the woods. She just…walked by my side, and listened and—she let me cry and didn’t talk to me as if I was less for it.”

He knows that Zevran must remember, knows that Zevran has to remember what happened after Kinloch Hold in their tent. The tent that they had been sharing for less than a week then. The tent he doesn’t wish he was sharing with anyone else right now.

“And when we were leaving Lothering she saw—all those refugees in the camp, and she seemed to be doing okay, as okay as someone can do after seeing something like that, but when we camped a little further away to spend the night she just—crumbled,” he mutters the last part, still remembering her haunted face, the silent crying that was followed by violent shivers as soon as Alistair was close to her, “and the worst part is…she just kept apologizing. After going through fucking hell she just—” he shuts up after that, draws in a shaky breath before he tries to search for Zevran’s gaze in the dark once more.

“I have never seen her shed a single tear, not once,” he hears the elf say “she’s come to me more than once, after the Brecillian Forest and after the Urn—but I think she was sincerely worried for me after those which is still…”

“Baffling?” Alistair offers, which makes Zevran laugh, tired, he hears him shuffle a bit closer, his blankets and roll being pushed a bit closer. Alistair does not mind.

“Yes, it’s one way to put it. You two being so _selfless_ ,” he says the word as if it was poison, or very strange to intone without any snark “is quite astounding. I had never imagined that the infamous Grey Wardens would be like that…even if I have murdered plenty of selfless Chantry boys in my days—no offense”

“None taken,” Alistair laughs a bit at the last bit, recognizes the bait and takes it, hearing Zevran chuckle lowly afterwards. “I didn’t expose her life for nothing you know…is just—I don’t know if you’ll ever feel comfortable with it but, I don’t want you to reach that breaking point. It would be…” _painful to watch_ “…hard.”

“I know about other stuff that will be hard by that time,” and Alistair has never been more grateful to hear innuendo in his life. He doesn’t blush even if he has no one who can attest to it. “The Crows already broke everything that could be broken, _cielo._ There’s not much left.”

“You,” he blurts out “you are what’s left, and honestly I think that it could be much worse.”

“I could be another witch of the wilds, yes?”

“Or a six feet qunari who will not even talk to you,” he answers with a light laugh, glad that the heaviness that seemed to have settled inside of the tent seems to be seeping out through the seams.

Another moment passes in silence, they hear Dog bark at something, the rumble of Shale’s voice making her fall quiet a couple of seconds later. Probably the wind, maybe a deer that’s strayed away from its pack.

“I still do believe that you should sleep, Alistair, as much as I appreciate your bonding attempts,” Zevran insists, his voice gentle once again, hands and fingers ghosting close to Alistair’s.

“Yeah, well I’m glad they are working. I’ll be able to put into practice your wooing advice in no time,” Alistair answers, pulls away as slowly as he can, finally deciding to lie down, tugging his covers up so that he can keep his hands occupied, not encounter soft flesh under his palms, just cloth, or packed earth.

“I never got to give you that advice, no? If the technique is yours, and giving just a bit of constructive criticism, it needs a bit of polishing,” he hears Zevran move, but not descend, maybe shuffle closer? Or away? Alistair can only see what he supposes that are his thighs from this angle, his flank if he looks up a bit.

“I would never—I’m not interested,” he mumbles clumsily, far more timid than he has any right to be after the conversation they just had.

He smells it before he feels it linger against his skin, his mind bringing back memories from the night after the Circle.

The alcohol, the gentle cajoling, the even gentler words that had led him back to the tent.

The smell of vanilla and other things he didn’t recognize then—and still doesn’t today—, something resembling spice.

The soft brush of hair against the skin of his face, the even softer feeling of air rushing out of the other man’s nose—his hairs standing on end at the memory.

The brush of lips against his temple, similar but still not the same. Alistair thinks that they linger a bit longer, maybe because he’s far more awake and sober than last time.

“ _Duerme bien, principito_.”

Alistair recognizes some of the words. The last one he’s heard. His mind not sharp enough to know if those were the same ones Zevran uttered that fateful night months ago.

Zevran lies down finally, Alistair can feel his warmth from up close, he’s missed it, hadn’t said a word after they went back to sleeping away from one another after descending from Haven, after spending almost a week sleeping mere inches away, one night even sharing their bedroll to try and fight the cold.

He hopes Zevran doesn’t pull away during the night. He hopes Zevran maintains their sleeping arrangements on the following nights to come.

He hopes so hard he thinks he’s actually sinning, but for once he doesn’t muster the will to care. Alistair thinks that hoping is worth it.

**Author's Note:**

> Just gonna leave two translation notes down here for the important bits ;)  
> Principito—little prince; like the one in Saint-Exupery’s book  
> Duerme bien, principito—sleep well, little prince.  
> Comments are always deeply welcome, as they keep me motivated and writing!  
> You can find me on [Tumblr](https://midwrites.tumblr.com/), and I’m also trying to put together a Twitter account to ramble about writing (so I’ll link it around here when I’m done)


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